one summer's day, spirited away
by lydiamartins
Summary: It's a mix for a city with smoke and rain, for wet newspapers and biting winds—RoxanneScorpius.


**characters: **roxanne, scorpius, albus, rose  
**word count: **2,840

sorry for spag errors - this is for the hpfc competition of 'hunger games styled competition', finals round. prompts are as follows; pathway, hope, wishes.

* * *

_one summer's day, spirited away_

* * *

Her fingers enclose a mix—

It's a mix for a city with smoke and rain, for wet newspapers and biting winds; she boards the train, numb fingers, waving frantically goodbye to the figures that fade into oblivion—cheery faces and sugary candies surround her, and she loses herself in the land of magic and monsters.

Daughter of George and Angelina, older sister of Fred the II; _You are a Weasley, _the Sorting Hat whispers into her veins, _you are a Weasley, and I wonder how long it will take for the rest of you to start bombarding Hogwarts again. Be careful; scarlet and gold runs through your veins, but you do not belong in Gryffindor—there is a place for you in Slytherin, as well. Everybody wants to be a Gryffindor these days, and you have greatness in you—_

_No, you can't—YOU CAN'T, DAD SAID I HAD A CHOICE, _and her thoughts are frantic and all over the place, because it's bloody Slytherin, she won't be a Slytherin; it's a house full of half-bloods and purebloods, the very people who killed her uncle, and she won't live in that House for seven years, with the constant reminder that these are the descendants of Death Eaters, and even though her father always tells her, don't judge a person by their heritage, she will, she will, because that's what her cousins do, and she trusts them more than anything in the world. _I'll be a Gryfinndor._

The Sorting Hat barks out a laugh, pensive for a moment, _Gryffindor it is, Weasley. GRYFFINDOR!_

(Peals of laughter and applause echo for moments in time, in the distance, and she finds her seat next to James Potter the II, smiling.)

* * *

She grows into her role as a Gryffindor_—_

Somewhere in between top of the class and barely passing, falling into the radar of Victoire Weasley, upperclassmen and the like; it is something wonderful to not be completely invisible, but to not be noticed as well, and Roxanne feels as though she is living in another dimension of the universe, where everything is easy and simpler, and nobody cares about bothering her.

Fiery tendrils form a lion's mane—

She is a Weasley, a Gryffindor-to-be; her roar will not be subdued by metallic tints of insecurities. Cheeks flushed from balmy heat, the sunlight coating a blanket of security upon darker-toned skin (she could have been perfect, bright red curls and paler than ivory skin, just how little Lily Luna is, but perfection is a bit overrated and stupid, she thinks); Roxanne fingers the stream, water rushing past her jagged fingertips, eyes flitting across a perfect winter's day. Scorpius Malfoy sits beside her, awkwardly situated upon the grass, staring into the sunset and fidgeting all the time; low attention spans do children possess. "I am an artist—that's what I am," she says, defiance ringing in the syllables. "Who are you?"

He looks down upon her, condescending as all Slytherins are meant to be. But they are not, you see—not all Slytherins are cunning and manipulative, and the children associate Slytherin with being the 'evil house' and the Slytherin children mold into that fit, a slow and painful process. "I'm a Slytherin."

"Your house is not your identity, Scorpius—you are a Slytherin, yes, but Slytherin is not you."

"You don't even make any sense," he complains—hints of a whining child slip through icy facade. "Stop telling me what to do, anyways; you're not my mum."

She raises an eyebrow and Apparates—one of the several perks of having a troublemaker father—through the mist of snow; ice crashes across the glassy windows. Winter is coming. "You'll catch a cold," he catches up to her, long strides and flushed cheeks.

"Since when have you cared about my well-being?" Fiery tendrils, the only color in the brightbright white snow; colors fade as the seasons change. She's the one to leave this time.

* * *

Roxanne walks upon the pathway of disillusionment and enlightenment—

There is something to be questioned, there is always something; in a world that is ruled by madmen and monetary pursuits, it does not seem as though humans are the inventions of Gods. At the end of the path is the Mirror of Erised—to her it is the Mirror of What Could Be and What Can Never Be, and she does not spend much time peering inside its murky insides because hope is a very dangerous thing indeed. "Forget boys, Roxanne," Victoire, class heartbreaker, tells her, the slightest shake of her head. "Keep your eyes on the prize. I see greatness in you, little Weasley—"

"You're not much older than me, Victoire."

"What do you want to be? Do you want to be associated with the Slytherins?" Because if James Potter the II is something of an advocate for pro-Gryffindorism, anti-Slytherinism, then Victoire Weasley, his second cousin, is something of the female version of themselves; fire runs through both of their veins, cold ice in their hearts, numbing. "You are a Weasley, and we will not let you drag us down with you. We have something of a reputation."

"Seriously; what, ten years, thirteen years, fifteen years have passed since the Battle at Hogwarts? We're supposed to be moving on from the past, we're supposed to be forgiving and forgetting." At least that's what Dad tells her, except he says it with a hollow voice, and sometimes in the night, she can hear his cries of _Freddie, _and when he looks at her younger brother, it's blank for a moment in time, and then back to a cheery facade, but the blankness is as hollow as the fall into oblivion, and it's frightening. He looks at her and her brother as though they could disappear, and then holds them close, and tells them that they'll always be safe, but they won't, will they really?

Victoire barks out a laugh, "Roxanne, Roxanne, Roxanne. It's all about forgiving, yes, but never forget what the Slytherins have done."

The next year Dominique Weasley, younger sister of Victoire, comes to Hogwarts and is sorted into Slytherin.

Victoire doesn't ever mention her sister with pride in her eyes again—"She's the enemy now," Victoire murmurs, and then Roxanne thinks that this whole situation has gotten a little too out of hand, because Victoire and Dominique, for Merlin's sake, they're sisters, and they have their little brother Louis, and two alive parents, and that's all that they've got, and they're throwing it away for what, house rivalries and one hundred year long grudges?

* * *

Roxanne Weasley—she wishes to be the girl that nobody knows about; it is not good, perhaps, to be in the middle, to be in the division of schism, stuck within the boundaries; one side, or the other, a choice must be made. Artistry runs through her veins, instead of binding them, setting them free—they roam throughout the crevices of the universe, never stopping to ask questions, always pushing forward past the boundaries. "Mudblood, aren't you?" They're back to normal, her and Scorpius; it's not bullying, it's not flirting, it's something in between, as Roxanne always is.

"You're a Pureblood, aren't you? I've been told about your kind—Malfoys; Death Eaters in the Battle." It is not ten years prior, and the twisted veins of pureblood families are something despised and cursed these days.

"I am not my father."

Roxanne barks out a laugh, "We are not who we choose to be, Malfoy. We are nothing but organisms made out of look, placed upon this Earth for the purpose of impacting others around us, whether it is heroic or through scars, or a combination of the both. We are not the almighty Gods, able to choose who wish to be—do you understand this?" She speaks pensively, as though everything has a double meaning.

Scorpius stares at her, "Blimely, Roxanne. Are you on drugs or something?"

"I've been studying. Not studying. More like thinking about life in general, introspection on my own. You should try it. Then maybe you'll stop pretending to be somebody that you're not."

"You sound a bit like Rose," he remarks.

"I do not wish to be like Rose—she is books and intelligence of the mind, but there are things far more important than that. She builds her life around gaining knowledge, knowledge of how many bones are in the body, how many spells there are—and she plans to learn them all—and I admire the girl for that, but I spend my time thinking about life. It's far more important."

"In your opinion. Maybe that's why you're failing all of your classes; Rose is your cousin, though. You shouldn't speak that way of her."

"You like her, Scorpius, don't you? It's quite obvious really." She smiles, tilting her head to one side, dreamy expression upon splayed out smile. "Go talk to her," Roxanne nudges. "Before it's too late."

* * *

Roxanne Weasley has scarlet and gold running through her veins, flaming tendrils and flyaway curls pinned back, fingers nimbly dotting over the surface of the Gryffindor table; Scorpius Malfoy watches her from across the Great Hall, something of jealousy in his eyes. "You like her, don't you?" Albus mentions; he is blond hair and green eyes and wiser than all of them, not because he can tell when crushes form between students, but because he understands that crushes are futile, and at the end of the day, friendships and family is all that's going to matter.

(Love is not for the weak, not for the faint of heart_—for Gryffindors, for Ravenclaws, for Slytherins, for Hufflepuffs; _none of them are weak, none of them are cowards.) "I don't like anybody, least of all Roxanne Weasley. Merlin's sake, the girl's half-mad." Scorpius returns, eyes concentrated down upon piles of apple-consisted mush, and thinks that there is not much of a difference between the food options at the canteen back at St. Grogory's Primary and the one at Hogwarts (except for feasts, of course, feasts are marvelous).

"Then, I guess that it was useless for me to schedule your Patrol Assignment at the same time as Roxanne's."

"Completely." And then five minutes later, "I think that I'm going to go ask James about Quidditch tryouts."

He rounds the corner, hands loosely pressed into the pockets of flowing green and silver robes; Roxanne bumps into him, cheeks uncharacteristically flushed, feet clicking back a few steps. "I'm not late, am I?"

Scorpius raises an eyebrow—she should know the time. She should know everything: that's what she usually pretends to be, the one who knows everything and anything: not educational material, but just the great answers about life. She's something of Plato or Socrates, he thinks. "N-no, you're on time. I mean, three minutes early, actually."

"Why do you even hate me?" It's a question of something akin to confusion, and Roxanne rolls her eyes, because he was the first one to call her a Mudblood, in the first place, and by now, he should know of the family rivalries (no matter how stupid they may be) that have arranged themselves at Hogwarsts.

"Hello? You're a Malfoy, I'm a Weasley."

"They're too many Weasley's, to be honest—it's you and Victoire and Molly and Louis and James and Albus and Lily, god how many Weasley's are there, really?" He pauses for a moment, pensive expression, "Oh, don't forget about Lucy and Dominique and—" She purses her lips and walks in the other direction. "Friends, then?"

"Friends, then." And then they become friends, easy as that. Except nothing in life is ever that simple.

* * *

It starts with her father—"Blimey, Roxanne, isn't that your dad up there?" Rose asks, words jumbled together at something like one hundred words per minute. "Because, it looks an awful lot like your dad, but why would be here; maybe you're in trouble?"

"Oh, god." Roxanne buries her hand in her face; Victoire turns to her, laughing. "Don't even, Victoire. Just don't."

And for a moment, Victoire's silent, but then she starts chortling again, and Roxanne's not even sure why the situation is so funny in the first place. Maybe because her dad's on the stage with some sort of chemical defect because his nose has turned a bright blue color and he's carrying this really awkward contraptions, something akin to the products from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. "So," George Weasley starts, voice ringing around the Great Hall; _Oh Merlin, just let me disappear now. _

"Apparating in the Great Hall is forbidden," Rose chimes in.

"I wasn't going to disappear," Roxanne replies, trying to clutch onto her remaining dignity. "I think I need to go to the bathroom, though, so—"

"In remembrance of the Triwizard Tournament's 20 year anniversary, which ultimately made Weasley's Wizard Wheezes possible, I've organised a week long Prankster competition in Hogwarts."

"Bloody hell," Rose murmurs. "How'd he pull that off?"

"Probably bribed Headmaster, something like that—McGonogall would never have let it happen otherwise."

"Potential Competitors must enter a parchment with their name in the 'Drum of Drama', feeding the Inferno of Infamy, and boiling black clouds of mist of mischief; 'Reeking of Rulebreaking'—" And the words and dreams and wishes go on for something she'd like to call eternity.

* * *

The Christmas Ball is where it happens—it's more of a celebration for each House than anything else; there is still the feast in the Great Hall, piles and piles of sugary and savory treats, glittering lights and candles floating up to the bright black sky, an absence of stress over examinations: nothing short than perfection. But the students of Hogwarts could all agree upon the fact that the after hours parties in each of the Common Rooms of the four houses was where the real celebration was at. "Scorpius?" Roxanne murmurs, laughing a little. "What are you doing here, dressed like a Christmas tree?"

"I'm not Scorpius, I'm a magical Christmas tree—Merlin, I sound like a child. Just pretend like you didn't see me, okay? Just pretend like you didn't see me and go eat some more of those cookies, okay? I was never here."

"Except you were. Wait, are you spying on House Gryffindor?"

"Of course not!"

"You are, aren't you? I knew that there was something up about these competitions that led for teenage stupidity, specifically of the male kind, as it always seems to be these days. Why are you here in the first place? Why do you want to win anyway?"

Scorpius gives her a hesitant smile, "I thought that you were the one with all the answers, Roxanne."

Roxanne shrugs, "I don't have to know everything; I don't want to know everything. Where would all the fun be then?"

"You're something else, aren't you."

"Perhaps." And then he's the one for her—it's as simple as that;'

Love doesn't have to be with complications. There isn't the usual drama associated with relationships at Hogwarts, what with the ever-so-formal induction ceremonies and such.

Victoire with her perfect ivory skin looks at Roxanne as though she's a complete and utter disgrace to the Weasley name, tainting herself with a Malfoy, and picks up Rose Weasley as her new protege—at least she'll listen to her father, about not getting too cozy with a Malfoy—and that's the end of it all. But Fred Weasley the II, and Mum, and Dad, they aren't the type to hold grudges for forever and ever, and they're the only ones who matter in the end.

Meeting the family was inevitable—

Astoria was kind and welcoming, Draco was more tolerant than she could have imagined; Lucius Malfoy hated her. Roxanne was not the type of girl to pretend that everybody loved her when it was anything but the case, because she had a million better things to do than to change people's views upon her; ice runs through his veins, judgmental ice that puts on the fire. "Are you ready?" He asks, clenching her head in a reassuring manner.

"Always." And they embark on a new journey, this time, together.


End file.
